


Breaking

by Syntaniel



Series: What Fate Sees [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos Whump, M/M, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos will not see D'artagnan broken, he refuses. But with the Musketeers splitting forces, it may not be D'artaganan at risk...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that sprung from my other fic, Threads of Fate though it is not at all necessary to have read that one first.

      It was supposed to be a relatively standard mission. Scout the area where the thief had gone to ground, retrieve the jewels, and return them to the Court for the King's justice. Aramis and Porthos had split off to look into the nearby village and Athos and D'Artagnan had circled around to investigate the local villa. They had been deep in the woods when the ambush hit. A dozen men and half again, well armed. A familiar sense of fatalism filled the two musketeers stomachs as they surveyed the odds but they were surrounded. Athos and D'Artagnan gave good account of themselves, felling fully half of their attackers, but so far outnumbered the outcome was a foregone conclusion. They had been taken. Their weapons stripped from them; their captors taking the pains of their associates out on the two Musketeers as they were dragged to the tower room of the villa. For all that it was three stories up, it was dark and dank, with only two windows that belied their purpose for how little light they let in.

 

      That was days ago. Athos couldn't be sure how many. He'd taken a boot to the head somewhere between the forest and the villa gates and he'd been unconscious when they were thrown into their separate cells. He could still feel the lump on his head when he moved and, even now, he continued to fade in and out of consciousness. The wound still bled sluggishly, but, as he'd been unconscious, Athos wasn't manacled and they hadn't bothered to question him. Two cells down, D'artagnan was not so fortunate and he hung limp, resting as best he could while hanging from the ceiling. Their captor hadn't let him down after the last visit, had just left him hanging like a slab of meat.

     Athos had nearly given them away more than once during the questioning - anything to turn their attention away from D'artagnan, anything to stop the screaming. But he held firm to the agreement they had shambled together in the dark of that first night and Athos remained still when the soldiers stomped up the stairs, careful to keep the return of his wits from their captors, not wanting to give them the leverage to use against D'artagnan or pass up the advantage. After so long, it was the only one they had. And finally, it paid off. By sheer neglect on the part of their captors, he heard the plans as the guards outside their door gossiped about where they would ambush their brothers as they searched for them. Heard them laugh about the copse of trees where they would wait for any coming in search of Athos and D'artagnan and kill them. Athos clenched his jaw hard enough to make his head throb as he listened, forcing himself to concentrate.

     A deeper louder voice sounded down the hall and Athos' breath caught as the guards at the door sprang to attention and the keys jangled. The villa's comte strode in, surveying the tower cells with something like pride. Athos lay in the corner of his cell directly next to the door, muscles slack, prepared so that he could not flinch when their captor kicked him through the bars to see if he was awake. There were bruises around his ribs already from previous visits. He heard them taunt D'artagnan in the his cell, heard the sick smack of fists meeting already abused flesh as chains creaked where they hung from the ceiling. The comte considered D'artagnan with a sneer, "Will you tell me now? Have you finally realized how futile this is?" He pushed lightly on D'artagnan's chest, causing the musketeer to gasp as he swung in the air. "How many were you? How many are out there?"

     Athos' chest burned with pride as D'artagnan glared and practically spit at the comte, "Legions. We are legion and they are coming for you."

    The comte sneered, "If I have to kill every Musketeer in France, I shall do so." He pressed forward, his fingers digging into one of the open wounds on D'artagnan's ribs, forcing a scream. "You will never take my son for something so foolish as petty theft." He stepped back and D'artagnan's dark head fell forward without a sound, only the rise and fall of his chest letting Athos see that he still lived. The comte wiped his hands on a handkerchief. Athos forced himself to stillness again as he turned and stalked past, "If legions come for you, I'll bury them beside you." He waved the soldiers to his side, "Leave him. I'm done with him."

      As soon as their footsteps faded down the hall, D'artagnan lifted his head enough to see Athos as the older man abandoned caution to try the cell door again. Desperation rang through Athos' voice as he spoke, "We have to get out of here." He eyed the window in his cell, seeing the crumbling mortar he'd discovered their first night in the cells. It would not be easy work but getting out was possible.     

     D'artagnan chuffed a bit as he dangled from his chains, something that might have been a laugh had he been able to take a proper breath, "There is no 'we' this time, Athos." There was fever bright in his pale cheeks and his voice was ragged from screaming. The Comte had given up quickly this time but it was not the first time he had used D'artagnan so.

     A growl escaped Athos' throat without his knowledge as his hands clenched around the bars. "I'm not leaving you."

      D'artagnan's head lolled, the eye he could still open surveying the room once again. "It does not appear to be a choice, Athos." He took a few shallow breaths, twisting his swollen hands against the thick metal of his bindings. The burned skin was still bright against his wrists where the blacksmith had been careless. "You would need tools and a half dozen hours to free me, Athos. There is no time." A wave of pain crashed over him again, leaving his olive skin pale as parchment. "And even if there were," he shuddered under the onslaught of chills, unable to control them, helpless and forced to brutal honestly before the advance of the fever, "I cannot walk, much less climb out that window."

     Athos' hands burned where he clenched the bars with white knucles, unable to get to D'artagnan. The light remained uncertain but he could see the dark stain of blood on D'artagnan's torso, the white of bone peeking out through some of the slashes on his ribs, looking vaguely obscene set in the darkness of the bruised flesh. Rage burned in his throat and tangled with a sob. "I cannot see you broken. I **won't**. I _will_ get you out of here."

     The smile he got in return was gentle despite the bruises as D'artagnan's dark eye looked over at him. "Athos," the word was barely breathed through a rueful smile. "I'm not breaking. I'm just dying. Go."

     Athos choked on the words. But even if he could find something to use for a lock pick, even if he could get through his own cell door, he'd still have to get into D'artagnan's cell and get the manacles off...

      Some fierceness kindles in D'Artangan as Athos tried frantically to come up with another way, "GO! Our brothers are out there. They are out there, he is hunting them, and I will not let you waste time on me when you could save them." D'artagnan's gaze felt like a benediction, emotions swirling behind it that made Athos' breath catch in his throat. "There is nothing more you can do for me, Athos. Except for save them. I will not forgive you if you could have tried to save them but stay instead just to watch me die." Still Athos wanted to protest. Still he wanted to refuse. But he'd spent the last three days trying to get into D'artagnan's cell whenever he had the chance, never mind getting out of the prison in general, and he'd made no progress. They had planned to wait for their brothers but now... The window in his cell was the only choice, the only chance. And he could see D'artagnan was right. Weakened by the fever, by the beatings, and with injuries Athos could only suspect, D'artagnan could never make the climb.

      And still he couldn't do it. His heart failed within him even at the thought. "D'artganan..."

     D'artgnan lifted his eyes, the left swollen shut and crusted with blood, but his gaze was no less fearsome for that. "Go. Save them." He took as deep a breath as he could, feeling his ribs shift slightly with the effort. "I will hold on." His arms trembled as he let it out, weakness racing through his limbs that he refused to let Athos see. "I will hold on as long as I am able."

      It was a straw, thin and flimsy at best, but Athos grasped at it, the broken pieces inside him realigning with fierce purpose. "I will return." 

      The solemnity in his voice resounded like an oath and the corner of D'Artagnan's mouth quirked in a smile. "I will do my best to wait here for you." It felt like a lie he tasted as copper in his mouth. But Athos could not die here. D'Artagnan would not allow it, could bear any torture but that. "Now go. Save our brothers."


	2. Chapter 2

     Athos will never remember his escape. It passes in a blur of near agony as his body, weakened from nearly three days without food and throbbing from his injuries, protests the sudden flurry of movement. But urgency fueled him - he had to do this. They were all counting on him. He feels his ankle give when he hits the ground but they'd left him his boots and the stiff leather will hold it for this, especially as it swells. He's in the woods in moments, disoriented by the light but free of the villa at least. He knows he's leaving signs - the city was always more his territory than any forest - but he's too tired and his head is throbbing. His only goal is to get around the copse of trees before Aramis and Porthos arrive, without attracting the attention of the Comte's men. If he can get there first, then he can save his friends. Once they are together again, D'artagnan...

     But he can't think about D'artagnan now. Can't spend the time on the terror that's been arcing through his chest since he woke up in that cell to  the other's screams. Can't dwell on the fact that D'artagnan was barely conscious when he finally forced the window bars from their ancient mortar. If he thinks about it, he'll turn back and Aramis and Porthos will be lost. Athos presses on. And if, in the back of his mind, frantic prayers are being chanted wordlessly to a god he no longer believes in, there is no one around him to hear.

 

   

     Aramis and Porthos had spent two days looking for their brothers. When Athos and D'artagnan failed to appear at the meeting site after that first day apart, Aramis had felt the first stirrings of dread. He and Porthos had been late arriving themselves, held up by a misunderstanding between himself and the baker's husband. He had not meant anything by his flirting, and it had got them the information they sought, but the lady's husband had not taken kindly to finding his wife blushing like a maid in the corner of their kitchen. 

     Porthos had come to the rescue with a handily applied frying pan and they had left with all possible dispatch, anxious to tell their brothers that they knew the identity of the thief and where he had likely gone to ground. But when they arrived at the designated spot, Athos and D'artagnan were not there. They had waited only the night before setting out to search, methodically covering the ground of the forest. 

     It was twilight of the second day and Aramis had a pinched look to his face that Porthos knew boded ill. The marksman had been carrying his pistol across his lap for the last few hours and Porthos could almost feel eyes upon them in the forest. "We need to stop for the night." He said in a low tone. 

     Aramis' sharp eyes surveyed the woods again, noting the shifting patterns of light. "The woods thin up ahead about a mile, it may be there's a clearing..." He cut off sharply, pulling his horse up short as he heard the crack of a branch in the woods to the east of him. Without a word, Porthos turned his mount beside him, unsheathing his schiava to cover his back. He raised the pistol, scanning intently...

     "Hold!"

     Aramis flicked the gun up instantly at the sound of that familiar voice and moments later, Athos stumbled into view, gasping for breath. There was blood crusted on the side of his face and bruises visible on his jawline. Porthos grabbed for Aramis' reins as the Spaniard hopped off his horse and grasped their leaders' shoulders, turning his head to try and find the source of the blood. Athos panted in his hold even as he pulled away, "Stop. Can't. Clearing. Trap." 

     With every word, Porthos face grew darker and he wheeled the horses in front of the two men, placing himself between them and the path to the clearing. "Can you ride?" 

    Aramis glared at him but Porthos didn't apologize. Only something truly horrible could have made Athos return without D'artagnan and with Athos clearly injured and down a horse, there was no way they could withstand a serious ambush. 

     Athos nodded shortly, his arms coming up to grasp at Aramis' as the other man moved to brace him to mount, "We have to hurry. D'artagnan..."

     Porthos cut him off, reaching down to pull him up on his horse in one smooth movement, "Talk as we ride. If that's a trap up ahead, I've a mind to be away from here while we plan." 

     Aramis mounted his own mare, looking with dark eyes over at Athos, "Are you hiding anything that will kill you in the next hour?" 

     Athos flinched at the question, outright flinched, and Aramis felt dread solidify in his stomach. "No," The older man ground out. "But we have to hurry. D'artagnan..." His eyes fluttered closed as he allowed himself a moment to rest against Porthos' back.

     "We'll find a place to go to ground," Porthos shot over his shoulder as he kicked his horse into a cantor. "You can tell us the plan and we'll fetch the whelp in the morning."

     "No!" There was desperation in Athos' voice that chilled his friends to the bone. "We must go now, while they set their ambush. It gives us the best chance." Porthos felt Athos' hands flex on his sides, trying to grab onto something that wasn't there, as he said in a hollow tone, "Besides, if we are to save D'artagnan, it must be tonight. If we are not already too late."

     


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they return for D'artagnan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten! I promise! Thank you everyone so much for the kudos and the comment! They are very much appreciated. This is just a short update till after the holiday but I didn't want anyone to think I'd forgotten this one.

   They made their way through the manor quickly, most of the guards had indeed gone for the ambush and the manor was only lightly manned. Athos wouldn't tell them anything about D'artagnan's condition other than that they could not expect him to walk and had to plan accordingly. The look on his face when Aramis had pressed him had taken his breath away with the depth of his friend's pain. And so the plan was simple - storm the manor and take D'artagnan back. 

      Weapons in hand, they climbed the stairs as silently as possible. Porthos clutched an iron bar in hand that Athos had liberated from the workshop on the way up. If Athos had seemed especially savage in his attack on the blacksmith, Aramis knew better at this point than to comment. Athos hadn't said a word since they arrived at the manor; his lips pressed in a bloodless line. He didn't pause, he didn't wait, he didn't waste time toying with any solider they found; there was no fancy bladework today. He simply killed them and moved on, relentless and merciless. 

     It took less time than Aramis had feared for them to reach the narrow staircase, topped by an oaken door, that Athos had described. Only then did Athos' step falter. He took a shuddering breath on the stair and turned, sword and main gauche in hand, gesturing them to go by. "Go. I'll hold the stair."

     Aramis looked askance at him, "Athos, are you sure? What..."

     Athos cast a despairing look up the stair and shook his head. "He needs you and you'll need Porthos to free him." He set his stance on the uneven ground and the faint light glared off the bruises on neck as he swallowed, "I'll hold the stair."

     Despite all of that, Aramis was not prepared for what he saw when Porthos opened the door. His pistol, which had been at the ready, nearly dropped from his fingers as his eyes lit on the younger man. D'artagnan hung limply from the ceiling, his arms swollen at the wrists and shoulder, his ribs actively peeking through gaping wounds on his torso. From his position at the door, Aramis could not even tell if he still breathed. If they were too late...

     He ran towards the cell, only to be barred by the door. "Porthos!" He didn't recognize his own voice but Porthos was there, almost before he spoke. The iron bar was put to good use levering the lock from the door and then Aramis was inside. "Please," he breathed as his hands came up to D'artagnan's face. The world seemed to still for a horrible moment and then Aramis felt the slightest of movements against his fingers. "Gracias, Dios." Wide eyed and desperate, he looked to Porthos, "We have to get him down." 

     Porthos face was grim as he surveyed the chains, "I won't be able to get those manacles off without a hammer. We'll have to take him with the chains."

     "Just get him down, Porthos." Aramis said vehemently, digging in his sack for bandages. His hands trembled but he managed to get out some supplies swiftly. Porthos stood up next to D'artagnan, trying desperately to find an uninjured spot where he could lay his hands but there was nothing. In the end, saying thanks under his breath that their friend was not awake, Porthos just moved swiftly, lifting the younger man with his chest on Porthos shoulder so he could brace the weight and use his other hand to pull the manacled arms off the hook. D'artagnan made not a sound during the maneuver but when Porthos laid him down, Aramis cushioning his head, red stripes of blood streaked across his chest. 

     Now that he could work on him, Aramis was almost at a loss for where to start even as his hands pressed on bones to determine which ones were broken. So many wounds... "Aramis," Porthos' voice came to him from where he stood at the cell's tiny window, looking out over the countryside. "We can't have much time. They're certain to send at least some men back before full nightfall. Do what you have to do and we'll deal with the rest later." 

     Aramis nodded, breathing shakily and opening a packet of herbs before placing them on the deepest wounds to stop the seeping blood. His hands moved quickly, knowing the motions better than his mind, securing bandages in place. "We must be careful, Porthos." He looked up only briefly. "We cannot risk pushing ends of the bones into his lungs." 

     Porthos looked grim as he came back to their sides. "We have to move, Aramis. I'll do the best I can but if we don't get out of here quick, we're going to have to fight our way out and he doesn't look like he has time for that." But the big man's hands were gentle as he worked them under D'artagnan's back and knees, hefting him up as slowly as he could. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long everyone. My computer crashed after some power surges over thanksgiving and it took me till new year's to replace it. I am literally working on the next chapter as we speak.

The look in Athos' eyes as they emerged from the cell was wild as he spotted D'artagnan's limp form in Porthos' arms and Aramis hastened to reassure him, "He's alive. We must hurry, but he's alive."

Athos took a shuddering breath before taking the lead again with a short nod. He didn't trust himself to speak. Porthos fell in behind him with Aramis at the rear, pistols in both hands. 

For once, they reached the horses without delay; no sign of resistance - the bulk of the guards still hadn't returned and those that remained, they had already dispatched. At the horses, Porthos shook his head, "Aramis, how are we going to do this?" D'artagnan was still limp in his arms, pale and so very still. "We can't stay here and he can't..."

Aramis' brow furrowed, creasing the small scar there. "No, you're right. We have to move." He shook his dark curls and moved to his own horse. "Athos, get the rope. We'll put him ahead of me and tie him to me." He mounted swiftly, settling himself as far back in the saddle as he could. 

For a moment, Athos looked like he wanted to protest, but Aramis shot a pointed look at his still bleeding head and he moved to get the rope from Porthos' saddle bags. It took both of them to get D'artagnan settled before Aramis without further damage. But the younger man was still unresponsive and his chest barely moved with the effort of breathing. As Porthos tied the rope around their friends, Athos' hand dropped down to D'artagnan's thigh, twitching with the effort of letting go. 

"Athos," Aramis' voice was firm and it anchored Athos to the present, "We must move. If we don't tend him soon..."

With one swift move, Porthos pulled Athos up before him and the four set off.


	5. Chapter 5

It took far longer than Aramis wanted to put distance between them and the manor of horrors. D'artangan remained slumped against him, unconscious, but there was a heat rising in his skin that Aramis could feel through his shirt. But with two grown men on each horse, they couldn't risk any speed without laming the animals. It was night on twilight before they found a spot that Athos deemed safe enough. Aramis half suspected from the increasingly worried glances that the man simply couldn't bear to risk going any longer without seeing to D'artagnan.

  
Athos moved away almost immediately, "We'll need a fire."

His voice was hoarse and there was something in the tone that worried Aramis, but he didn't have time to spare to worry about the older man now. Porthos moved fast, undoing the rope and helping D'artagnan down, laying him gentle as he could on the forest floor before taking the reins from Aramis.

Aramis wasted no time, continuing the work he'd begun in the cell, pulling his bag from the horse before Porthos led them away. He ran his hands down D'artagnan's sides, trying to determine the extent of the damage. There was blood everywhere but it seemed his captors had preferred the blade to beatings and the underlying bones at least, were sound enough. Cracked, but not broken and that was more than Aramis had dared to hope for in the depths of the cell. He yanked the plug from his water skien with his teeth and poured wine within over the wounds, hoping the alcohol would stave off any further infection. It was clearly already too late for several of the cuts, the white of bone peeking through inflamed reddened skin. "Pater noster, qui es in aelis," the prayer fell from his lips without his knowledge as he frantically threaded his needle to try and close the wounds.

The rustling behind him went unheard but it wasn't long before the smell of smoke reached him. "Porthos," he called, without looking up. "Heat up a dagger. Some of these won't take the needle and I need to clean the infected ones." He didn't need to look up to know Porthos was doing as he asked. A shadow fell onto D'artagnan's chest and Aramis heard a choked noise. "No." He still didn't look up. These wounds had been left unattended too long and, judging by the heat coming off of D'artagnan's skin, the infection was already spreading. "Athos, you cannot..." He bit the words off. "I have little enough light left to work."

"Aramis," there was a desperation in their leader's voice that Aramis had never heard before. "Please." Athos didn't even know what he was asking.

Aramis shook his head, hands setting stitches in skin more swiftly than he'd ever done before. "Water. We'll need water." He could almost feel his friend's gratitude as he moved away. And he was doubly thankful for it as Porthos handed him the dagger he'd heated over the burgeoning flame. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Aramis took the blade and went to work.


	6. Chapter 6

Night had fallen fully before Aramis was satisfied that he'd attended to everything he could. He rolled back from his crouched position, closing his eyes against the sudden light as he looked up into the fire. His friends had built the camp around them as he worked and he felt almost surprised to see it through his weariness.

As soon as Aramis had sat back, Athos had stilled, his breath stealing from his throat. He couldn't speak, couldn't bear to have it confirmed. It was Porthos who asked, "Aramis?"

Aramis ran a hand through his hair as he looked back down at D'artagnan. "I've done everything I can. I've cleaned out the wounds, closed all the ones I can." He brushed a hand against D'artagnan's forehead. "But the fever is the biggest danger now." He sighed wearily, rubbing his hand over his face. "We'll need to keep watch, keep him drinking."

"I'll watch him." They were the first words Athos had spoken in hours and it showed in the rasp of his voice. 

Aramis looked up at his head - Porthos had cleaned him up and the wound had stopped bleeding but he still showed the marks of several days of captivity. "I still need to tend to you."

Athos shook his head sharply. "You need rest, Aramis. And I'm fine." Skeptical dark eyes slanted at him and Athos held up a hand to forestall Aramis' protest. "I am fine. I am bruised but nothing's broken. I played dead most of the time. D'artagnan." He choked on his name and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath against the pain of it. "I will watch him."

A quick look at Porthos netted him a shrug but Aramis was too tired to argue. "Fine." He pinned Athos with his gaze. "But you will wake one of us up. You will not try to sit the whole night." He held Athos' eyes till the older man nodded. Aramis' own head spun a bit as he got up to switch places with Athos and he gave him a small smile, "Unless you have need of my skill, wake Porthos."

Athos quirked a lip in reply and settled next to D'artagnan. He pulled Porthos' cloak tighter around him. It was all they had to offer for a blanket. He could feel the heat from D'artagnan's brow even before he sat beside him and it made his heart stutter. He took the cloth, which he suspected was a remnant from his ruined shirt, and wetted it from the skin before laying it on the younger man's head. D'artagnan lay still, still as the grave, as he had since they'd left the manor. Athos couldn't bear it. He placed his pistol on the ground within reach and moved to D'artagnan's head, lifting it gently onto his lap. 

He couldn't tell how long he sat there, cooling his forehead as best he could and dripping water into D'artagnan's mouth every so often. The night seemed to have enfolded them, Porthos' soft snore blending with the crackling of their small fire. D'artagnan was still burning up and it made Athos' heart quail within his chest. He was speaking before he realized he'd taken a breath. "You promised." His own voice sounded strange in his ears. "You promised me that you would hold on." It felt like his heart was splintering in his chest. This was going to break him. "Do not give up on me now, D'artagnan." Athos laid a hand on D'artagnan's hair, tangling his fingers in the long strands. "I came for you. We came for you. You have made it this far. You cannot let go now." He was nearly doubled over, cradling the dark head in his lap and arcing over it. "Please." It was nearly a sob. "Please."


	7. Chapter 7

It was Porthos who came to him later, in the deepest part of the night. Athos looked up at him with raw eyes as he moved towards them, meeting the concern in the other man's eyes with a quick shake of his head. "He's still holding on."

  
Porthos could see the flush in the pale olive colored skin and knew the answer to his other question without asking. The fever still ruled. He sat next to them, moving his bulk with a silence that remained surprising to Athos, even after all these years. He took one of the skins that lay next to Athos and trickled some water into D'artagnan's mouth, deliberately not looking up at Athos. As he put the skin down, the dull gleam of metal caught his eye and he reached out, gently taking D'artagnan's hands into his own, running his fingers over the rough weld of the manacles. Aramis had done the best as he could around them, forcing bandages underneath as the swelling had eased slightly. Porthos hated the sight of them with a vehemence that made his hand itch for his sword. "I'll strike these off in the morning. He would want..."

Athos winced but nodded. "To be unbound."

They sat in silence for a moment, until Porthos put his hand on Athos shoulder, the warmth of his touch burning through his borrowed shirt. "Go to sleep, Athos. I will watch him." As if he didn't hear him, Athos' hand continued stroking D'artagnan's hair, as if by will he could force the fever to break. Porthos' hand moved down to grip his wrist, stilling the motion. "Athos." Blue eyes met his only reluctantly and Porthos' voice was gentle, "He would not want to see you broken over this."

A bitter laugh forced itself from Athos' chest. "I was already broken, Porthos."

Porthos squeezed his wrist in comfort before letting go. Athos didn't speak again but he did move, pulling over a pack to place under D'artagnan's head as he pulled away. He stumbled over to the side of the fire where Aramis was sleeping fitfully and collapsed next to his friend. Though he would have sworn he could not sleep, as soon as he lay down, the weariness of his wounds, the weight of his worry, pulled him under.

A sigh escaped Porthos as he watched Athos succumb to his exhaustion and his brow furrowed as he felt D'artagnan's forehead, still burning despite their best efforts. He splashed some of the water on the rag and wiped it down his head, tucking it in around his neck loosely. "Ah, D'art," Porthos shook his dark head, trying to quell the fear and rage tangling in equal measure in his chest at seeing him so. "It's up to you now." The words were solemn in heavy night air. Dark eyes surveyed his brothers - Athos' face drawn in pain even in his sleep, Aramis tossing beside him, D'artagnan hot and still under his hand. Porthos cleared his throat against the sudden tightness there. "We're called the inseparables for a reason, D'art." He inhaled a breath that felt sharp and blinked at the stars as they wavered in his sight. "If you go, we will follow soon behind."

He jerked his gaze down to the fire and he could almost see it in the flames. Should D'artagnan die... They would go back to the manor and follow D'artagnan into death well accompanied. It was as certain as sunrise. They had all, at one time or another, been the "survivor." The one left behind. None of them had any interest in surviving anymore. Porthos cradled his friend's hand between both of his and settled in to watch. And wait for what their fates would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's keep on this long. I think one more chapter, maybe two will see it done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one more to go...

Dawn, if it could be called that when it was barely lighter than midnight, came eventually and with it, Athos awoke. For a moment, he felt the warm weight at his back and thought... But pain filled his head when he moved and the noise that they politely called Porthos' snoring reached his ears. It felt like he forgot how to breathe as the events of the last few days came crashing over him. He closed his eyes against it, torn between willing himself back to oblivion and wanting to rush back to D'artagnan's side.

  
The wave receded, leaving Athos hollowed inside. Like all renewed purpose and life had left him, taking the heart of him with it. Not since his brother had died had he so very badly wanted something not to be. He could not do it. He could not open his eyes to hear that beloved life had been cut short, this thread had been cut.

"Athos." The reprieve was over. Athos opened his eyes and turned away from Porthos' warmth to face the inevitable. Aramis' face was drawn and pale, showing the marks of far too little sleep, but after a moment, he recognized the expression on that face as a smile.

Something that might be hope filled his chest as Athos pushed himself up, all the pains of stiff muscles and bruises forgotten. "He's alive?"

The Spaniard's smile got bigger. "Pure Gascon stubborness," He looked down fondly at the dark form in front of him, practically swaddled in their cloaks. "He is alive."

"And the fever?" Athos was at his side so quickly, it could have been magic. Without waiting for an answer, he laid his hand on D'artagnan's forehead and nearly wept. "He's cool."

"Yes," Aramis grinned. "It broke just before dawn."

Athos couldn't believe it, couldn't process it. His fingers tangled in the dark hair he hadn't even realized he was stroking. "Is he...?"

Aramis' grin sobered a bit. "He's going to have to recover, Athos." He ran a hand through his hair, already messed from days on the road. "He is not the young puppy we first took in. I'm still worried about shock from the cauterization. Those wounds... Some of them were bone deep."

"I know," Athos interrupted harshly. The stark white of bone in the midst of D'artagnan's chest was going to feature in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Aramis winced, "He will need to heal. There will be scar tissue and it will need to be stretched." He sighed heavily, "I still don't know how bad off the muscles in his shoulders and wrists are. And the fever..."

"The fever broke." Blue eyes were determined and insistent.

"Yes," Aramis agreed. "But we will not know until he wakes if it did further damage."

Athos closed his eyes against the warning in Aramis' voice. "He promised he would hold on." The rising sun glinted off the bruises still ringing the older man's neck as he swallowed hard. "D'artagnan has never broken a promise to me." Athos took careful measured breaths and deliberately took D'artagnan's hand in his, lacing their fingers together. "I will not believe he will fail me... or us now."

Aramis clasped a hand on his shoulder. "He should wake soon." He cast dark eyes to the horizon but it remained empty of anything other than trees. "I have herbs that will make it easier to move him later. I'll get to work on that. And I'll wake Porthos so we can get rid of those manacles."

Much as he wanted to, Athos didn't protest. They had done damage to the Comte's forces but he couldn't be sure how many more men he had and they could not be taken again. The Comte would be brought to justice, and his son with him, but not with D'artagnan in danger. They had to move.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience. Here's the last chapter. If there's any interest, I think this thread of mine has one more story left to finish it off. I do rather like things in nice neat trilogies. ;)

 

     Despite Aramis' words, D'artagnan did not awaken through the morning. He did not stir when Aramis poured a foul smelling liquid down his throat, nor when Porthos struck the manacles from his wrists. In silent agreement, Aramis and Porthos began to break down their meger camp and scout ahead while Athos sat with D'artagnan, choking down his own dose of the vile concoction that Aramis shoved at him. He had not missed the worried look the Spaniard shot at them when he was walking away, but he refused to acknowledge it and squeezed D'artagnan's hand, more to remind himself that the Gascon still lived. He had twined their fingers together again and was running his thumb over the pattern they made, refusing to think of what his continued stillness meant, for that way lay madness.

      Porthos was kicking dirt over the fire, erasing any glaring signs of their presence, when Athos felt it. So light, barely there. Athos stared at their joined hands, desperately trying to convince himself that it was real. And then it happened again. D'artagnan's fingers tightened on his own. "Aramis!" Athos croaked. "Porthos!" He leaned over D'artagnan, laying his other hand on his forehead.    

      "D'artagnan?" Athos wasn't sure if he spoke the word or merely breathed it. For a moment, he thought he truly had imagined it, pulled the sensation from some phantom memory. "Please," he whispered.   

      Cracked lips moved the slightest amount, but even leaned over as he was, Athos could not make out the sound. His hand moved to D'artagnan's cheek, "D'artagnan?" He couldn't put a name to the sound in his voice. He was leaned over so that his ear was nearly at D'artagnan's lips, barely registering the arrival of the others by their side.

    "Til duty," D'artagnan breathed the painfully familiar and oft repeated words, "or death, Athos."  It was clearly a struggle, but his good eye opened slightly, meeting Athos gaze unfailingly as his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. "Not dead yet."

     Behind him, Aramis barked out a laugh and Porthos clapped a hand on the medics back in joy but Athos didn't notice. A whole army could have crashed the horizon at that moment and they would have had to wait.

     A smile curved his lips just slightly, against his will, and he registered the tears falling on D'artagnan's cheeks before he realized he was crying. He rested his forehead against the younger man's and closed his eyes against the swell of emotions in his chest. "Thank you." He could see the question in D'artagnan's eyes. "For holding on." He clarified.

     Split lips quirked in a smile, "Always." It was clear the effort tired him and his eye closed again.

    And Athos knew that they couldn't stay like this. They had to move. Had to get D'artagnan back to the garrison.  Had to send out a full squad of Musketeers to drag the comte and his son to justice. But for now, with his forehead touching D'artagnan's,  strong fingers in his, the puff of warm breath on his cheek, and their brothers at his back, it was enough.


End file.
